


beat your swords into plougshares

by tco



Series: The coffee-verse [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Fallen Castiel, Guilt, Human Castiel, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Post Season 8, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 03:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tco/pseuds/tco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer was right - they would always end up here.<br/>Zachariah's dreadful prophecy comes to their home like a silent thief before the dawn and Dean doesn't know anymore how to save Cas from the meatgrinder that humanity turned out to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	beat your swords into plougshares

Dean wakes up in what he supposes is the stolen, barely existing time between the end of a night and coming of the dawn. Cas’s silhouette is a smooth wave, like handful of small hills, a distinct entity because of the courtesy of a soft light creeping into the room through a crack under the door. Dean tries to sink his ears into the pattern of Castiel’s steady breathing and he presumes he’s asleep, at last. He draws small circles on his back, again, quite aimlessly as he fixes his eyes on the back of Cas’s dark head and can’t help but wonder how did they come to this. Dean is not even sure if the sight before him is relieving or rather just grim in its essence. As much as it keeps him steady, it is painful for him to witness. He wishes he could say how thankful he is: for Cas being alive, for him being here, of all places, for letting him feel the salty scent of his skin, for letting him hear his voice, wash his clothes and provide him warm dinners, for seeing him pick a favorite mug for his damn coffees, for not losing him and not having to grieve his loss at least this once, for his fucking presence alone that makes Dean feel more alive than he’s ever been, for the luxury of knowing upon waking up that Cas is there, in their home, alive, breathing and staying, for not having to pray anymore but getting to call across the kitchen, and finally, for all the things he should have thanked him ages ago, but didn’t. He wanted to say it out loud one day, all of it and more, he needed to, even. But now he doesn’t think he ever will after the ruthless honesty of this night, after seeing Cas falling apart at his seams, torn into shreds by the weaknesses of human mortality. Dean doesn’t think he has the right to thank Cas for living with a curse.

Above all gratefulness, Dean feels guilty. Because it’s him who’s the source and the reason for all of this mess and torment. This is how people end when he needs them, this is what happens when Dean’s not careful what he wishes for. Maybe the Angels were right all along with trying to keep Cas away from him in particular at all cost and above all cost. Right – saying that his touch corrupts. Right – warning him what will happen if he lets Cas love him. And damn, he tried so hard to prevent it, but he lost his own path along the fucking way and fell in that love himself and dragged Cas along instead of making him stop. Seeing Cas becoming something so much akin to him – two hundred something of bones, some fat and some muscle, a brittle sack of crap suddenly even easier to break and lose, Dean regrets all of it. And the good moments, their small victories – he’s not that sure if it was worth it. But he couldn’t have stopped it, he just knows, which is probably the worst since they landed in the middle of a war against their own hearts and they had zero chance to win. Because no matter what he would do, what would he attempt to change if he had one thousand three hundred eighty two Cas’s chances to try to kill something precious, he would still end up falling into Cas over and over again. It’s inevitable. Inevitable in ways even fate was not.

Impossible to avoid was also finally realizing they won’t get their version of apple-pie life, either. Cause it was his, all along. Not Cas’s. Cas chose none of this. Cas never said he’s shitting on his halo and quitting infinity for the sake of exploring the wonders of late thirties, of restless nights that need to be slept through somehow, but they aren’t because Dean’s touch and his hands seem to corrupt Cas even in those places where they shouldn’t be allowed to break anything at all. Dean starts to see things heading towards where they ended, starts to see meat and meat grinders. Hell was better than what this will be, he thinks sometimes when he accidentally sees through the lie he’s trying to feed this house with. He should have stayed there instead and he just can’t understand why he didn’t try harder to fight that holy grip away. With him down there, Sam would have been safer and if Cas had never touched him, he’d never become this. Maybe it was the only chance to avoid the otherwise unavoidable result. The only way to not end up loving Cas is not to meet Cas at all. All other strategies are lost from the start, it’s a game only won by not playing.

And he had the nerve to need and want him to stay, to say it in his face when Cas was literally one lethal blow away from final salvation. Nobody wants do die, and truth be said, he didn’t want to, either, at least not like that, not out of Cas’s hands, but if he had known what would happen later and what Cas would be reduced to, he wouldn’t have said a damn word. Maybe Cas is reading his fucking dreams wrong. Maybe he’s just being reminded that he did the wrong thing after all, when it mattered the most. Dean was supposed to be saving people, not sentencing them to punishment they’re not even fucking designed to take. He remembers Kevin’s note making him think that people he doesn’t need anymore end up dead. Turns out, people he needs end up worse than that. Hollow, wistful, drained, waiting to die but not getting to quickly enough. Dean tried so hard, too hard, to pretend he doesn’t see the signs, to believe his own stupid stories of healing, adjusting and better times coming one day, of being able to fix someone in countless ways violated and broken.

But now he remembers, he – a man from the start – couldn’t handle switching his car for an old Acadian, how trapped and pained he was when he had to play-pretend a civilian for a year and how relieved he was to offer himself up to the war again. Those are small things, those are very fucking small things, compared to being an indestructible T-Rex for all your life and waking up as a chicken over night. And he actually hoped that Cas would really believe that’s in any way okay, cause hey – there’s this other chicken around, so it’s gonna be fine. That it’s worth beating angel swords into redneck ploughshares all out the sudden. That it’s possible not to suffocate for a fish torn out of its waters.

Cas the Angel used to smile from time to time. Cas the Human stares blankly at the skies, mourns lost echos, cuts his hands when he’s chopping vegetables and while he lets out a hollow “ow” every now and then, he doesn’t bother with trying to stop the bleeding. Not because he’s not used yet, but because he doesn’t care and Dean’s bones scream it to him every time when he rushes to fix the wound instead, but he’s been selfish enough to deliberately not listen. Cas the Human seems to finally learn from his mistakes and most of the times, he reacts to Dean’s touch exactly the way he should have done from the start – he pulls himself away as if it burned.

Dean keeps his arm on Cas’s chest because Cas didn’t push it away while he could. He doesn’t know if it’s a sign, if it should be read in any way, so Dean stays close to what he has, or closer, cause he allows himself unknowingly to rest his palm on the warm, unaware chest – a pathetic attempt to save the man from whatever nightmares there are in the world. He’s not sure how to deal with the fact that he’s the biggest of them all – the mother of all the nightmares yet to come.

Naomi was right not only about Metatron, in the end. She was right, apparently, when she wanted Cas to see him as a needy, selfish, destructive thing. There was a poison in all of his confessions. He wanted it to be a promise of good times. He ensured years of suffering instead – all of it because he needed Cas by his side, something like this – like sharing a home, a bed, having coffees and breakfasts and hunts. But the result turned out to be a vile parody of the dream. Cause there’s coffees, more coffees, dull silences, nothings and sometimes they’re unlucky enough to catch glimpses of sadness on each other’s faces and then Cas lies that it’s okay and he lies that it gets better in reply. Perhaps it’s about time he said the truth. He’s a coward, but he can only do it when Cas can’t hear him. He can’t just tell him that with everything that Cas had sacrificed – Dean doesn’t know how to make it worth it.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” he murmurs to the somberly vulnerable and silent contours of Cas’s body. “You should’ve killed me back then, in the end. Just look where I took you, man,” he says, his voice merely a shameful whisper.

Dean feels another palm locking tightly on his own. He chokes on his air and the tears that are even harder to hold now that he knows Cas has heard him.

“Here,” Cas says, as if it was the most simple thing in the world. It isn’t.

“And what is this here?” Dean ponders brokenly, sounding way angrier than he intended to. “I could only give you something you didn’t want. Cause you don’t want it, Cas.”

“No, I don’t,” he admits and Dean remains silent. He deserves this pain, after all. It’s a worse stab than the one that never came. “But I want you,” Cas adds quietly, yet firmly, the tone of his mysterious words carrying finality that’s horrifying and stark in ways Dean remembers it from the times they just met and had no clue it would be the end of them just yet.

Dean doesn’t know how to classify the terrified, little sound his heart lets out through his throat. A part of him begs Cas would turn around to face him at least, say a single word to clarify. But he doesn’t. They share a bed, only their palms touch, their bodies two distant mountain ranges, Cas just said an impossible thing and Dean doesn’t even know how Cas’s face looked like when he said it, or what could it tell him now. Could it tell him: wants him why?; wants him how?

Silence falls on them hard and graceless.

“Cas?” Dean tries softly, hoping to maintain the contact.

“Don’t,” he gets cut off too sharply, too abruptly. “You have used your limit for stupid things to say, Dean.”

Silence returns, thicker than it was. Silence creeps into Dean’s throat and cuts it raw with its merciless claws. Somehow only the smallest, faintest sounds cut through it and make it to the sad ether, where Dean’s ears and heart are sharp to catch every single one of them.

Cas is crying.


End file.
